Rival's Discussion
by Working-On-Sanity
Summary: Peter and Perry talk over coffee about Perry's relationship with Dr. Doofenshmirtz. Peter only wishes he could share such a bond with his nemeses. Prompt result. Humanized Perry and Peter. Hints of Perryshmirtz.


**Note: **This prompt was "rivalry." I instantly thought of Peter and Perry. Because this plot required a large amount of dialogue, I had to "humanize" the characters. I shan't be humanizing them again anytime in the near future. Perry's so much hotter as a platypus.

* * *

"Why don't you just back off?"

Peter's thick eyebrows lowered to emphasize his threat. Otherwise, his round face appeared emotionless as ever.

Perry turned his head casually to gaze out the window. Cars shot past, mere flashes of color. Sometimes the vehicles accelerated to such hazardous speeds that their colors blended. Perry felt suddenly glad he had been unable to hail a taxicab.

"Well?" Peter leaned back, his fat fingers wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug. He sipped the tepid coffee calmly, but his beady eyes remained fixed on Perry.

"I'm not," Perry said. He raised his broad shoulders in a slight shrug. "I was assigned to Doofenshmirtz. You weren't."

Peter's lips thinned in something of a smirk. "So, by that logic, you mean that you own him."

"No." Peeved, Perry shifted his attention to the brass button that glinted on the sleeve of his suit jacket. He was not afraid to stare at Peter––he simply didn't want Peter to believe Perry thought him worthy of sparing the energy to look at. Perry began to pick at the button, his fingernails clicking against it quietly.

"Heinz is, by far, the most... entertaining man I've had the pleasure of meeting. Too bad they had to waste him by giving him to a child like you."

A flare of anger stabbed sharp and white-hot through Perry's stomach. Peter's last jibe seemed babyish, and bothered Perry little, but for some reason, the fact that Peter referred to Doofenshmirtz by his first name made Perry want to strangle him. He could practically _feel_ Peter's large neck beneath his fingers.

Perry snatched his fedora from the top of his head and began to fan himself with it. Fury stifled him, and the scent of frying oil that permeated the diner caused his stomach to churn. Sweat oozed from his forehead, and rage made his brown eyes almost black.

"Shall I get you some water?" Peter said mildly, watching Perry with interest.

Perry jammed his fedora back onto his head, its floppy brim drooping. "No."

"There's no need to throw a tantrum," said Peter, as if chiding a toddler. "I'm not moving in on your territory. I live in Seattle, remember?"

Perry scrunched lower and lower in his seat. He loathed Peter's calm, conversational tone. What was Peter implying by calling Doofenshmirtz Perry's "territory"? The entire business greatly annoyed Perry. He wished he had asked the waitress for something to drink. His throat felt tight and scratchy, as if he had swallowed a handful of sand.

Peter chuckled suddenly, and for a fleeting moment, Perry hated him from the roots of his salt-and-pepper hair to the soles of his black suede shoes.

"The more time I spend with you, the more I realize you're not much of a talker. I presume that's why you and Heinz get along so well...?"

Perry mustered the will to grunt, but the air rushing over his tongue made his throat close up. His eyes stung, and he quickly rubbed the heel of his hands over them. He realized far too late that Peter interpreted this as crying.

Peter blinked twice. He glanced around to ensure no one had seen, then bent forward at the waist until his face was inches from Perry's. Perry's expression contorted in a scowl.

"I didn't think you were a sensitive guy." Perhaps Peter intended that to be an apology of sorts, but it sounded almost like a taunt. Perry wondered if remorse could shine in Peter's eyes, or if the puffy purple bags around them were like a wall to keep any emotions from leaking in.

"You were right," Perry said crossly. He slouched against the booth cushion, the back of his jacket bunching up in wrinkles as he slid into a sulking slump. His sun-browned nose and cheeks glowed faintly with an angry blush, and even the tufts of dark hair that had curled from sweat over his ears could not hide how red they were.

Perry blamed his lack of composure on the heat. From somewhere in the kitchen, a fan whirred to life, drowning out the clinks and rattles of plates.

Peter took another leisurely sip of his coffee. "This is good," he said, swallowing. "Want some?"

The gesture, though polite, made Perry shove his fingers beneath his fedora and rake them through his hair in utter frustration. Why did Peter act cordial one instant and sardonic the next? Perry could scarcely comprehend. Did Peter have interest in being friendly, or did he only feel sorry for Perry?

"I guess you don't care for coffee, hmm." Peter shrugged nonchalantly. "Do you Australians prefer tea or orange juice?"

"Coffee." Perry somehow managed to speak through his tightly clenched teeth. In all honesty, coffee made him nauseated, tea tasted like lukewarm dishwater, and the stale orange juice that this restaurant served smelled like something wet had soured in a laundry basket. Could Peter not have offered him a soda, or even a latte?

Peter motioned for a waitress, who unwillingly paused by the table. She nodded, repeated "coffee," and left in a cranky flurry of apron strings and frizzy hair.

"Great service," Peter said, his voice muffled by his coffee mug.

Perry rested his elbow on the tabletop, swinging his leg idly beneath the table. He prayed fervently that Peter would finish his coffee and excuse himself from the table.

Time dragged by.

Perry discreetly slipped his fingers below the hem of his sleeve, groping for his wristwatch. He remembered he had taken it off this morning. He blew a disappointed sigh past his lips, and the rush of cool air made his bangs flutter before settling lightly against his slick forehead.

Peter noticed Perry's agitation, and knew he was the source of it. He felt quite nearly sympathetic toward Perry, until he reminded himself that they were rivals, striving against one another to reach the same goal. Rivals. Why did he constantly forget?

"Perry," he said, "would you ever be willing to quit your job?"

Perry jolted slightly, his fedora sliding askew. He recovered shortly. "Depends."

"What if someone offered you a similar job, but with ten times the salary?"

"Money's no issue."

Peter glared. "What I'm getting at is, would you voluntarily give up the agency to work for another one?"

Perry considered this, rubbing the crook of his forefinger against the underside of his chin. Finally, he shook his head. "No."

"So there's no chance of you leaving?"

"Why?"

Peter drummed his fingers against the table contemplatively. "I talked to Major Monogram about working here in Danville over the winter. He said there's no available slots, and won't be unless someone transfers." He looked pointedly at Perry.

"I won't," Perry said.

"Look, Perry, I know you're friends with Heinz, but isn't it a bit babyish to try keeping him to yourself?"

"I don't."

"Maybe," Peter said, "you'd have more friends if you opened up. You won't be young and handsome forever. It's best to get friends now."

"I've got enough." Perry remained quiet for a long time. He tilted his head contemplatively, and light glinted from somewhere below his chin. Peter squinted in the glare. Hidden almost entirely beneath Perry's shirt collar dangled a leather necklace strung with tiny chunks of turquoise.

Peter stared unintentionally. He had always thought of Perry as a loose, at-ease young man who looked quite comfortable in tuxedos, but he had never thought of him as the type to wear jewelry. The necklace looked, to Peter, quite rustic. _Like something you'd see on an Australian cowboy, _he said to himself. He wondered if Perry wore the necklace when visiting Doofenshmirtz.

"Why do you ask?"

Peter started at the senseless interruption. "Ask about what?"

"Jobs."

"Oh. Oh! The jobs." Peter hesitantly smoothed the front of his jacket over his paunch. "I was only asking because I'm interested this little city. It would be a refreshing change. A vacation, of sorts. And I'll have you know that I've gone through ten assignments in a month. It doesn't take _me _long to whip these criminals into jail. How long did you say you've been after Heinz?"

"Three years." Perry lowered his gaze, feeling inferior. He pressed his thumbs together awkwardly.

"Ah," said Peter. "See? If I had a crack at him, I could save the agency a lot of trouble. You saw me that time a couple of months ago. I almost got him that time, I did. If I had another chance, he'd been down in the prisons right smart quick."

"He wouldn't," Perry said. "You like him."

"That I do." Peter smiled, but this time, it seemed genuine. "He's a good companion to share coffee with. I only wish we could do it more often. But if any of my friends see us together, they're apt to call the boss and expel me from the agency. Duty before leisure, they say. Any good agent should know that."

"That's not a friend." Perry's glare cut directly through his forelock. "It's a fair-weather friend. If you like him, what your friends say shouldn't matter."

"Three whole sentences," said Peter, as though impressed. Then he frowned. "So you're very attached to Heinz?"

"We're friends."

"And...?"

"That doesn't keep me from my job."

Peter viewed this monotone statement as an opportunity to further examine Perry's dedication to his job. "This looks to me like a decision between a friend and the agency. Do you realize that fraternizing with the enemy could put all of us in danger?"

"He's no _enemy,"_ Perry said, sounding miffed.

"I didn't say Heinz in particular," Peter said, remembering how many times he himself had shared dinner with Doofenshmirtz. "We're just talking about a generic situation. Now, if you were forced to choose between leaving your friend or leaving your job, what would you choose?"

Perry lifted his shoulders as though uncertain, but the crackled gold streaks in his eyes boasted nothing but confidence. "I'd stay with my friend."

If Peter were going to object, he should have done so before the waitress bustled up with a cup of lukewarm coffee in one hand and the bill in her other. She slid the bill over the table, close to Peter.

"There's your check," she said. "Tell me if you need anything else."

Peter crumpled the bill before Perry could take it. "I'll pay. Give me a minute and I'll be back."

He rushed away, leaving Perry alone.

Instead of going directly to the cashier to pay for the meal, Peter stealthily ducked into the hallway. Two restroom doors were at each end, but no one was around to slip in and out of them. Peter stood casually by a gaudy gumball machine and leaned against the wall. He held up his wrist, pushing back his black suit sleeve to bare the sleek leather watch on his wrist. He blinked when the watch's face flashed white. A jagged streak of static cracked across before Major Monogram appeared on the screen.

"Good evening, Agent Peter," Monogram said. His brow arched in expectancy. "You're still meeting with Agent P?"

Peter nodded, his chin almost touching the knot of his checkered necktie. "I'm going to pay for the meal in a minute."

Monogram lowered his voice to a confidential tone, speaking so quietly that Peter could hear Carl's idle humming in the background. "Did you find anything out about Agent P? Don't tell me he's dropped any hints at being a double agent..."

"Agent P," said Peter, "is tough to crack."

Monogram nodded, as if he were well acquainted with that aspect of Perry's personality.

"But," Peter said, "he doesn't try to put on airs. I asked him what you told me to, whether he'd choose between his job or his friend. He said if it comes it that, he'll choose his friend."

Peter waited for his words to take effect.

At last, Monogram sighed. "I don't doubt that. Do you recall one of those visits of yours when you took the Dr. Doofenshmirtz assignment? That was the first time Agent P threatened to quit. He told me that it wouldn't be worth it, getting a target other than Doofenshmirtz."

"He told me, too, sir," Carl said, the top of his head the only part of him visible on the screen.

"We weren't talking to you," Monogram said pointedly. He turned back to Peter. "Thank you for talking to Agent P. I didn't really think he would work against us, but he had me worried. Sometimes I think Doofenshmirtz builds those contraptions just to get a visit from Agent P."

"You and me, both," Peter said in a mutter. He straightened immediately when Monogram frowned more deeply.

"I'll give you the rest of the details later," Peter said. He tugged his sleeve down over his watch and sedately walked from the hallway to the front counter. He paid for the meal, and as he walked back to the table, poking coins into his wallet, he saw that the cup of coffee still sat on the table in front of Perry.

"Why didn't you drink your coffee?" Peter said, a bit insulted that Perry disregarded his generosity.

Perry smiled and flicked back the brim of his fedora. "I hate bitter things. You should know, Pete."

Peter leisurely gathered his things, almost unaware that Perry had sauntered cheerfully away. By the time Peter understood what Perry had insinuated, Perry was much too far away for Peter to kick him.

* * *

**Note:** I won't be humanizing these boys any time soon, I can tell you. I can imagine Peter only as a fat distinguished middle-aged guy, and Perry as this short, Australian bumpkin that acts really professional all the time.


End file.
